Winston Birch, a college professor of classic literature, was the kind of man who thought of everything. Not once, not twice, but as much as he needed to feel personally satisfied for making the right choice. 

“If I park my car near my building, I won’t need to take my umbrella. My tea needs less milk. I’m two pounds heavier. I shouldn’t have purchased this red bowtie. I look like a clown. Maybe I am a clown, a sophisticated clown. I think I just conceived a character!”

There was absolutely nothing that didn’t cross his mind, and he invested considerable time reevaluating things from every possible angle.

Anybody would think Professor Birch suffered from anxiety and high levels of insecurities, which may be so, but this was an extraordinarily intellectual person who saw life through the lens of words, philosophical thought, prose, poetry—all of the subjects that engage the mind in profound pensiveness. It was a vice he couldn’t help. 

“I wonder what literary genre my life is. Certainly not a tragedy. I’ve been told I have no sense of humor, therefore comedy is discarded. Truth be told, sometimes I believe I’m the satirical version of the modern intellectual. What a mockery I have made of myself!”

Winston had sought help from psychiatrists and meditative procedures to help him appease his racing thoughts, but no remedy worked on him. The only habit that gave him temporary relief was a long, lonely stroll in parks or on campus. And even during those walks, his mind would not stop comparing the sights and sounds of his environment to the works of Goethe or Lord Byron, to name a few.

Occasionally, he tried his hand at writing his own verses, like this short poem:

“T’was a lovely saunter,
In the bridge of seasons,
At the twilight of a year, 
While another’s wings
Awaits its moment spring.”

One afternoon, after teaching two classes in a day, he took a break in the faculty hall to enjoy some time alone, drinking Early Grey and reading a book. All of a sudden, he was approached by a stunning young woman in a tight, silver pantsuit who interrupted his solitude. 

“Excuse me, are you Professor Birch?” said Emma, gold skin and hair, crystalline eyes, perky breasts, and the face of a cheerleader from Middle America. 

Winston nearly choked on his tea and did his best to hide the enlarging arousal between his legs. “Yes, I am. Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but my name is Emma. I just started as an adjunct professor, and I have been an avid reader of your blog since I was in high school.”

Winston never knew that his unpopular website on comparative literature had fans, much less someone so alluring as Emma. “Then you must be that one viewer.” 

His joke produced a sincere laugh out of her, and stimulated his mischief with words: “Oh, Emma, I lust for your touch of youth, your marble eyes, that succulent bosom. How I long to penetrate your vulva and do to you—”

“I was wondering,” Emma halted his erotic literary musing, “I’m in the beginning phase of my doctorate thesis on 17th century poetry. I should finish outlining my draft this week. Would it be too much trouble if we could meet one day and go over it? I would very much like your insight.”

“I see. Well, uhm…” Winston had been inquired to evaluate doctoral theses before, but never by a hounding, fertile woman who inspired the most salacious scenarios in his imagination. “Uh, I—I, I’ll have to, um, think about it.”

Emma didn’t expect his response. “Think about it?”

“Yes, well, I—I’m uh… I have a very busy month, but let me think about it and I’ll… let you know as soon as possible. How is that?”

“Oh! Sure!” Emma didn’t want to be rude and bought the professor’s response. “No problem. I wouldn’t want to intrude in anything important.”

Winston had lied. He didn’t have a ‘busy month’ as he stated, and could have easily made room in his academic schedule to assist her. The fact is he needed a moment to think about what had just happened in the faculty hall, and felt the urge to consider his options before making a decision to help Emma. What did he do? He went for a stroll on campus, and upon every step he took, his mind never stopped pondering:

“Is this woman in love with me? She claims to be a fan of my work. Is that the whole truth? Why didn’t she ask the other professors? They are fully qualified just as I am. She is absolutely gorgeous. Is there a chance we could become a couple? Would she romance a man like me? What does she—”

While ambling on a sidewalk, Winston was hit by a car driven by an intoxicated undergraduate. His brain ejected from his skull and splattered on the asphalt like a water balloon, at long last free from his own imprisonment.

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